CLARAGH'S LAMENT.1
BY JOHN D'ALTON.
The tears are ever in my wasted eye,
My heart is crushed and my thoughts are sad;
For the son of chivalry was forced to fly.
And no tidings come from the soldier lad.
Chorus—My heart—it danced when he was near.
My hero! my Cæsar!—my Chevalier!
But while he wanders o'er the sea,
Joy can never be joy to me.
Silent and sad pines the lone cuckoo.
Our chieftains hang o'er the grave of joy;
Their tears fall heavy as the summer's dew.
For the Lord of their hearts—the banished boy.
Chorus—My heart—it danced, &c.
Mute are the minstrels that sang of him.
The harp forgets its thrilling tone;
The brightest eyes of the land are dim,
For the pride of their aching sight is gone!
Chorus—My heart—it danced, &c.
The sun refused to lend his light,
And clouds obscured the face of day;
The tiger's whelps prey'd day and night,2
For the lion of the forest was far away.
Chorus—My heart—it danced, &c.
The gallant—graceful—young Chevalier,
Whose look is bonny as his heart is gay;
His sword in battle flashes death and fear,
While he hews through falling foes his way.
Chorus—My heart—it danced, &c.
O'er his blushing cheeks his blue eyes shine,
Like dew drops glitt'ring on the rose's leaf;
Mars and Cupid all in him combine,
The blooming lover and the godlike chief.
Chorus—My heart—it danced, &c.
His curling locks in wavy grace,
Like beams on youthful Phœbus' brow;
Flit wild and golden o'er his speaking face.
And down his ivory shoulders flow.
Chorus—My heart—it danced, &c.
Like Engus3 is he in his youthful days,
Or Mac Cein whose deeds all Erin knows;
Mac Dary's chiefs of deathless praise.
Who hung like fate on their routed foes.
Chorus—My heart—it danced, &c.
Like Connall the beseiger, pride of his race!
Or Fergus son of a glorious sire;
Or blameless Connor son of courteous Nais,
The chief of the Red Branch—Lord of the Lyre.
Chorus—My heart—it danced, &c.
The cuckoo's voice is not heard on the gale,
Nor the cry of the hounds in the nutty grove;
Nor the hunter's cheering through the dewy vale,
Since far—far away is the Youth of our love.
Chorus—My heart—it danced, &c.
The name of my darling none must declare,
Though his fame belike sunshine from shore to shore;
But, oh, may Heaven—Heaven hear my prayer,
And waft the Hero to my arms once more!
Chorus—My heart—it danced when he was near,
Ah! now my woe is the young Chevalier;
'Tis a pang that solace ne'er can know,
That he should be banish'd by a rightless foe.